woman king
by paper piper
Summary: "You know, I had a warrior once, too." –China/Mulan, France/Jeanne D'Arc


A/N: inspired by the song "woman king" by iron & wine; not strictly romantic, but you may be able to read it that way; also zero editing sorry!

A/N: please forgive historical inaccuracies, this is loosely based on "The Ballad of Mulan" and the historical Jeanne D'Arc

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**Title**: Woman King

**Summary**: "You know, I had a warrior once, too." –China/Mulan, France/Jeanne D'Arc

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Yao and Francis stared out of the Shanghai skyline from Yao's swanky penthouse suite. Nothing about the apartment or the skyline itself felt Chinese, from the Western furnishings to the alcohol rolling around on their tongues, but the quiet lights flickering behind Yao's eyes kept Francis acutely aware of where he was. Shanghai—the "Paris of Asia," but there was no comparison between his roiling city of Rcocco, the Louvre, Napoleon, and this place, geometric and lean, Yao's every dream and nightmare. Yao tucked his chin in a little bit demurely, his eyes not quite on the city anymore. In his hand was the book of poems he'd been reading when Francis arrived with drinks. It was in the traditional script, so Francis didn't have a chance at understanding it.

"You're thinking very hard about something," he finally said in his direct-but-not-exactly way. A gentle smile tugged at the corner of his mouth; this was good champagne, but of course, it was imported from his home.

"We are all always thinking about something," Yao said methodically, "this is our nature, as humans."

"We are human?" Francis teased, but Yao didn't answer, so he asked instead, "What were you reading?"

"You're talkative tonight," the Chinese nation smiled now. "'The Ballad of Mulan,' actually."

"Ah, Mulan," Francis sighed as if the name brought back memories. "Such a beautiful, romantic story. Patriotism, patriarchy, yet the strangest sense of freedom."

His low ponytail shook a little bit as he shook his head. "Not exactly how I remember it."

Now they were at the crux of the matter: Francis sighed again, leaned back in his chez. "How do you remember it?"

/ / /

I remember you, before you knew me. The baby bouncing on your father's knee, Hua who was still a fresh-faced war hero, sturdy and strong, with his wife and her lucky wide forehead, small mouth and its secret smiles. That smile struck me, too, back then, and I'd glanced at the little girl who still hadn't learned to keep her smiles a secret, and wondered.

_Mulan_, Hua said, seeking my approval of your name, water and flowers in your smiling eyes, my lucky flower.

_She will make a fine bride someday_, I said, foolishly.

/ / /

The youngster training in my regiments, with a voice a little too high-pitched and armor that didn't quite fit. The other soldiers looked askance, but asked no questions. _Go lightly over heavy ground_, Sun Tzu had said, and they did, and you did.

But one night I confronted you in the woods, pulled apart the loose men's clothing you sported and demanded: _Why? You should be home, with your mother, learning to be a wife!_ My reprimand was not entirely sexist—I am supposed to keep my civilians safe.

No answer, just firelight eyes and a locked jaw. You admitted nothing. You stood at attention, the picture of the dutiful soldier, though the delicate, ladylike curve in your chest was just exposed enough.

_Answer me, Hua Mulan._

Nothing.

I bloodied your lip, and you did not cry out. Your skin looked blue in the night, and the blood was deep violet. Flowers and water were all I could see—not gritty war, no, not for you.

Still you did not speak, though I raised hand and voice against you.

_Answer me, soldier._

_For my father_, you finally said, coughing. You did not bow your head. You did not apologize. I stared in wonderment, and understood for the first time why my men are so afraid of their own women. My women could be kings. My women could hold up the sky with just their hands.

/ / /

_The General, Wang Yao, soldier._

I knew you'd get hurt. Strong but petite, not quite hardened by war, just as liable to die as every other creature on the earth. _This is the way it is_, I sighed. Now, you, lying on a roll in the medical tent with a leg still trembling and bleeding. Your brow, wet and furrowed. Too pale.

_Let me see that_, I ordered the help, and a man uncovered the wound briefly before leaving us alone.

_I can be back into action as soon as you need me, sir._

_I did not ask you to speak, soldier._ I gritted my teeth to control my hands; I could not meet your eyes. _I should send you back to your father._

_Please._

One word, a pebble in the water. Water and flowers. Hua. Hua Mulan, a flower in my regiment. Uprooted and standing at attention. Suddenly my eyes were on yours, and I couldn't think of water and flowers, just that firelight again, lucky red and gold written across your forehead, as if to say, _I am yours. Let me fight for you_. No begging, or sobbing, the way I thought women did—no, here was perfectly silent. Just a wound between us, and water and flowers behind us.

_Recover quickly, soldier. We need you_, I said, finally, gruffly.

This is the first time I see you smile—and the sky itself lifted its head for you.

/ / /

A general, at last. Standing before your men splendid in armor, proud head high. Each and every soldier in your lines was thinking of his home: either to southerlands with raised cliff faces and rice and sunset rivers, or the north, snowy mountains and noodles and cities already ancient. You were thinking of your father's courtyard, his cry of pain in the night, the time he forgot your name. _Mulan, baba,_ you'd said, patiently, never reprimanding, though you cried after. You don't cry now. You march.

_We will march for our homes, for our fathers and brothers_, you called over the hushed assembly, daylight gleaming across your armor_. Think of your wives and mothers, for the children you will bring into their lives—for the world you built for them, here, on this battlefield._

Now—ah, yes, my Mulan—a fist in the air, small but strong, and a wide grin no woman could ever sport in public. But you wear it proudly, the way water giggles in brooks and flowers open their petals.

_Clasp hands with your brothers—and seize your future!_

/ / /

The looks on their faces was priceless. Idiots, your former colleagues and subordinates. Standing with their penises and their biceps and their mustaches, gaping open mouthed like fish at you, my General, born of water and flowers, bearing firelight eyes.

_You can't tell the difference between a male hare and female hare when they're playing together!_

A laugh, your head cocked into the wind, hair an impossible shade of night whipping against the sky. So feminine, I could practically see you in silk robes—but there was a helmet in one hand, a sword in the other. Your flaming tongue, your smoky ashes, your milk skin marred only by sun-kisses. Your leg, almost lost.

_I am a woman! _You told them happily, stripping off your bulkier armor to become slim and sweet, a mere slip on the powerful horse.

/ / /

It is with this beautiful sentence that you died also, an old woman who looked like a prune in your bed. _I am a woman_, you said to me, as I stood dumbfounded at your side.

_How can you die?_ I wondered aloud before I could stop myself. I was still in my smooth brown skin and slick dark hair, as young and strong as ever. But I felt weak, sick to my stomach—my champion, she dies.

_I am a woman_, you said again, this time with both eyes closed. _I am a woman—both large and small. Infinite and finite. I have a clear beginning and a clear ending, but everything in between is limitless, its value immeasurable._

/ / /

"She was so wise," Francis commented softly, in a warm, champagne afterglow.

Yao was very still. He had never spoken so much to Francis before, not since the 19th century, at least. And even then, openness had been a farce, a formality, a ploy at power on both sides. _What can I trust about you?_ He had always wondered, but then Francis spoke again.

"You know, I had a warrior once, too."

Now the pony-tailed man was smiling. "I know all about Jeanne D'Arc," he said, "your medieval knight. The Maid, you called her, correct? My people were quite infatuated with her for a time, you remember." Then Yao blinked, slowly. "But she is no match for my General."

"Oho, you think so?" Francis chuckled now. "I'd like to challenge you on that."

The other nation stood now and went inside. "Come, tell me all about her. But first I must make some tea, if we are to continue."

/ / /

No quiet, early-life moment between me and my Maid from Lorraine. I first knew you from a shriek in the woods; a little girl was stumbling about, muttering incoherently, her eyes crazed and wide.

_What is your name?_ I asked you, holding you close in your blonde curls and blue stare. _What is wrong?_

But then your face broke open in a dawn-like smile. _Can you hear the church bells?_ You asked me. _Aren't they lovely?_ And you pulled away from me slowly, serenely, and moved in the direction of your local church. After a moment, you stopped, turned. _Are you coming?_ You called. _Jesus wants to see you, too!_

And I recognized you the day you rode into Charles's court, a long, thick braid down to your waist. The same crazed, wide eyes, the same shrieks of madness. No longer a girl, but not yet a woman: a Maid.

_God has sent me_, you boldly told the world, _for France's salvation_.

The King turned to me in question, and I shrugged. _Give her a chance_.

But I can't pretend I had an entirely Devil-may-care attitude toward the situation: between Charles's inept leadership and Arthur's armies breathing down my neck, here stood a Maid with God's ear. I bent my neck and handed you my armies, and you cried, _For God and France! France! France!_

/ / /

_I do not wish to wield a sword in battle_, you insisted. _God will protect me. My true place is leadership, not violence_.

_This is war, Jeanne,_ I said, many times. _You have to at least be prepared._

_Francis, do you also not believe me?_ You finally burst, eyes hot blue light. _That God speaks to me, protects me? I thought you would be the last person to think that._

There, your trembling lip, the crushing fear of defeat lying side by side with the absolute assurance of victory: two opposing sides, at war within, fragility and strength. You are altogether a whole woman, my Maid, standing there in your light men's clothing, your long braid over your shoulder.

My hand came down on your shoulder, thin. _I believe in you. In God. But I also want to train. At least humor me_.

Again, the flash in your eyes, a searing light—_God does not need your tests._

_But you are a French citizen, Jeanne!_ I finally roared, throwing my cloak aside. You did not flinch, even before my tall, straight-backed anger. I backed up several paces, drew my sword. _You war for God and for me, you remember? Now, block me._

And I charged forward, swiftly, but not too hard, just enough to give you a feel for the movements. A small squeal, that of an unprepared animal, the weak block of your sword (_my, my, you drew that well, Maid_), the right foot stepping back to steady the force of my thrust (_ah, mistake number one_), and finally your sword, knocked away, your feet, cut from under you. And now, my Maid sprawled on the ground, breathing heavily, flushed deliciously, covered in dust. The tip of my sword at your collarbone.

_God wants you prepared, Jeanne._

Lowered lashes cast shadows against your eyes, but only for a moment.

_Fine then. Train me, if you please, Francis._

/ / /

Sprawled, again: you spent your life in the humblest of positions. Face-down in at the altar, in a drafty stone cathedral, praying fervently under your breath. Shivering, because it has been hours, and the rain is relentless outside. No doubt you walked through the onslaught here, to be alone, just you and the Lord.

And me, in the back row of the church, arms crossed and legs crossed, watching. It is always us three, isn't it, Jeanne? You, me, and the Lord.

And of course, your men, who know nothing—_my braid is the first to go_, you promised me as we left for Orleans. Now, your ugly cropped hair, savage and white-blonde. I mourn for your braid, for the loss of the little girl in the forest, with sparkling eyes and church bells in her ears.

_Jeanne._

The muttering stops. Excuse me, praying. Can one be jealous of God? Jeanne, are you God's first or mine? I cannot bear to ask.

_Let's go, we need to get you dry and to hold a meeting with the others._

You make no move, but you do not pray anymore. You just lay there, cheek to cheek with the unforgiving stone. I move toward you, grab your shoulder, but you whip around—

_Francis, they died! _

Taken aback, I can only stare: here is a pale creature with red ringed eyes, no longer my Maid. Still wearing battle-blood, smeared across a scabbed cheek.

_God's children_, you say, almost to yourself, _dead. God's precious children, my brothers and sisters._

_This is war, Jeanne_, I say, not for the last time. _People die_.

I carry you home, curled into my arms, so small, soft, white. Weeping into my shoulder, praying to God and to France—_please, please save the souls of the dead, Father they know not what they have done, what have I done?_

/ / /

Coronation Day, and we are all golden: Charles at the altar, in his robes and crown, at last; his queen and his children alongside him, their heads held high, ready to take on the task of ruling my kingdom; the court dressed their finest, so fine and so French. I am so proud that I cry, staring up into the colored light filtering into the church.

There you are, splendid in armor. You and your generals, talking together naturally, freely, as if you were not an illiterate peasant girl not yet eighteen, and they, married nobility with bright political futures. I see you all, and the disparity clutches at me, stays with me, somehow—people cannot be ranked this way forever.

And then, you are with me, in my arms, giving me a rare embrace of friendship and—dare I say it?—yes, I think there is love here. It will never equal the devotion or desperation of your relationship to the Lord, but I will hold you and I will be thankful.

_Francis, we've done it! Thank the Lord and his mercies!_ Your hair, golden in the sunlight, your smile, my little light like dawn. _This is the beginning_, you say, and I trust the blueness in your eyes, the strength in your hand. _God will only increase our blessings, on and on, forever, amen._

/ / /

The door slams, and Arthur looks up from his desk. _Release her!_

The English nation's green eyes are slanted and smug. He sets his chin in his hands and smiles softly. _She is a witch._

_She is no such thing, you beast!_ I come around his desk and grab the front of Arthur's tunic. _She is only guilty of outwitting your senseless barbarian armies, and you cannot burn her for that!_

_Oh, but cross-dressing? That is a sin, and we certainly can do something about that_, Arthur says, an unruffled bastard. I hate this face suddenly, with such a force that it knocks the wind from my lungs. Oh, I have never hated so fully before this moment. He pulls my hands from himself, and stands. _She will stand trial, and we will deal with her as we choose. She is a prisoner of war, at the very least._

_But to try her before an ecclesiastical court is nonsensical!_ I cry, voice breaking a little.

_Would you prefer a martial court? _

At my silence, Arthur continues on, his smile still in place, like a coiled snake. _The ecclesiastical court is the most impartial court we have at our disposal, Francis. You can do nothing._

I did not hesitate to punch Arthur in his crooked English teeth, but he was right: nothing could help you now, my Maid.

/ / /

I did not see you burned, but I felt it, every lick of the flames, every seared skin cell, the heat on your face. I sweated and shivered, spent the day face-down in a cathedral, muttering under my breath: _please, please save the souls of the dead, Father they know not what they have done, what have I done? _I took no nourishment, drank no water, only muttered and sweated and cursed myself on that cold cathedral floor.

Then, bells.

Church bells, clear and cheerful, like none I'd heard before or since. This was light falling in the darkness, incense burning at the altar, a little girl in the woods with blonde hair, blue eyes, and the look of the divine on her face. Jeanne, is this what you saw all those times? Is this what it felt like, to have God's whispers in your ear? For this, you burned. For me, you burned.

_Are you coming? Jesus wants to see you, too!_

I looked up, and I will swear to this day, that I saw you standing there, wearing Mary's blue, a lamb in your arms and a sword between your legs. A smile, dawn breaking.

_This is only the beginning. God will only increase our blessings, on and on, forever and ever, amen._

/ / /

"You really think you saw her, after she died?" Yao asked quietly, incredulously.

Francis nodded slowly, solemnly, never breaking eye contact. "With every ounce of me."

"Have you seen her since?"

"Have you seen Mulan?"

Both men stared at each other for a moment across the kitchen counter, evaluating what they've just heard. How much of it to take seriously? How much is Romanticized? But Francis is first to realize that it doesn't matter; Mulan in Yao's mind is exactly who he just described, just as for him, Jeanne will forever be the golden girl in the church with burning eyes. Jeanne is as fresh and raw to him now, in Shanghai in the 21st century, as she was then, flesh and blood in his arms.

He reached over and poured the last of the champagne in two glasses. Yao raised an eyebrow, but Francis touched the tip of his glass to the other.

"To the women who loved us, and who we will never forget."

After a beat, Yao held his up also. "To our woman kings."

"To our warriors."

And they downed the last of their drinks.

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_fin._

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A/N: hope you enjoyed that! kind of long for me, but whatevs. please **review**.


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